


i'm only sleeping

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Beds, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Gen, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 02:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12974202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Five times the Harris-Pryces slept (sort of) peacefully in their beds, and one time they didn't.





	i'm only sleeping

Thursday was a long day for everyone.

Joan had back-to-back meetings with new clients all afternoon, Lane had spent most of the week preparing tax forms for the IRS, and the boys were out until dinnertime, when Nigel walked Kevin home from his piano lesson.

So it was a real surprise when Lane didn’t even come to bed until almost ten o’clock: much later than usual.

“Hi.” Drowsy and warm, Joan smiled at her husband as he pulled back the covers and crawled in beside her in his long pajamas. Her heavy nightgown had tangled around her thighs. “You watch your show?”

Lane leaned in to kiss her hello. “Slept through it.” They kissed again, briefly. He groaned against her mouth before pulling away. “Love, ‘m too tired.”

“Are you kidding? I don’t want sex."

“Oh, thank god.” He let out a relieved sigh. “I’d’ve been useless.”

Joan gave him a playful look that said she’d guessed as much. As he settled back against the pillows, Lane scrubbed a hand over his eyes before removing his frames and placing them on his bedside table.

“What were you working on, just now?” he asked.

“Nothing important.” She placed her black leather folio on top of a small stack of books before fluffing the closest pillow, lying down, and turning over to face him. “Just some last minute thoughts on the Crain file.”

“They the ones who have the big drama picture?" Lane turned off his lamp, shifted down on the mattress, and pulled the blankets up to his chest.

“No – oh! ‘Scuse me.” Her voice cracked on a yawn. “They’re doing Shakespeare. Baroque influenced.”

“Mm. Strange.” Lane had already shut his eyes. “Can I have a little rest while you tell me?”

She patted his hand over the blankets. “Just agree with me whenever I stop talking.”

“Mmkay.”

“So I spent all day with them, the Armands, the Sagers, and the Boyles, and after all that—”

“No, I need Mama!”

A shrill little voice echoed through their closed door and down the hallway, followed by a deep, grumpy whine.

“Well, I’m not carrying you into their room.”

“NIGEL!” A shriek. “You _have_ to! It wants to eat me!”

Seconds later, knuckles rapped against the door.

“Dad? Joan? You up?”

“Yeah,” Lane seemed slightly more alert, now. “Come in.”

The door opened, and in walked Nigel, dressed in a pair of ratty flannel pajama pants and a plain black t-shirt. In his arms, nestled against his shoulder and clinging to him like a little monkey, was a little boy wearing a Sesame Street onesie.

“Go on,” Nigel said fondly to Kevin, as he set his little brother on the edge of the bed. “Go see your mum.”

Joan held out her arms, automatic, as Kevin crawled to her side. “You have a nightmare?”

He nodded yes against her shoulder, wordless. She dropped a kiss into his hair.

“Okay. You’ll be just fine.”

“Right.” Nigel ran a hand through his hair. “Bye.”

“No!” Kevin bolted upright, and screwed up his face like he was going to start screaming. “Stay!”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor, Kev.” Nigel sounded just as tired as they did. Who knew how long he’d been trying to wrangle the baby on his own. “Bloody freezing.”

“Come on,” Joan soothed, smoothing Kevin’s hair back from his face as the little boy began to kick and hit the mattress in frustration. “You don’t want Nigel to be cold, do you? He can sleep in his bed.”

“ _No_.” Kevin let out a loud sob; they were probably crocodile tears, but it was a damn good attempt to get some sympathy. “Nigel, don’t _leave!”_

“Oh, god.” On her other side, Lane stirred, and lifted one arm in a sort of wave. “Nigel, just come and lie down for a bit.”

Well, apparently the sympathy card worked on some people.

“What?” Nigel asked flatly.

“Stay till he’s ‘sleep,” Lane repeated, slurring his words a little.

“I’m not sharing a _bed_ with my—“ a pause “—well, with you two.”

“It’s for ten minutes. Maybe less.” Joan scooted right so there would be enough room. “And there’s three of us.”

Kevin was already nodding his head yes, scrambling into the middle of the bed. “Nigel. Nigel. Can I lay next to you?”

Nigel hesitated; Kevin screwed up his face with a loud - fake - wail.

“Oh, Jesus. Stop doing that.”

Huffing loudly, Nigel sat down at the foot of the bed, crawled up toward the headboard, and thumped down onto the middle pillow, folding his arms over his chest. The sullen act was ruined when Kevin clambered over and dropped a clumsy kiss onto his brother’s cheek.

Nigel hissed out an _ouch_ as Kevin accidentally bopped him on the nose when he pulled back. Joan made a sympathetic face.

“Mama, the monster tried to EATED me!”

“Boys.” Next to them, Lane was practically delirious. “Shush.”

Kevin lowered his voice to a high-pitched whisper as he turned his face toward Joan. “It was scary.”

“Tell me.” Joan murmured with a serious noise, schooling her mouth into a solemn line as she met Kevin’s eyes.

Behind Kevin, Nigel gave her a faintly amused look.

“Okay. So I was -- I was ready to go night night, and you said, “good night, sweetie” and I said “night night, Mama” and then -- and then the monster came in under the door when Nigel didn’t see, cause it was all dark, but I sawed him and I said: GO AWAY.”

“Didn’t say it, you screeched it.”

Kevin shook his head in a vehement way. “No, I didn’t! I told him leave me alone ‘cause I didn’t want to be eated. But he didn’t stop and he had big yellow claws and drooly teeth that were sharpy sharp. And I cried and cried.”

“Well, you’re safe now,” Joan told her son gently, shushing him a little. “So let’s try to sleep.”

Kevin grinned at her in a terrifying way before snuggling back down into Nigel’s shoulder and closing his eyes.

A softness crept over Nigel’s face as he shifted the little boy in his arms, and put one hand against the small of Kevin’s back. Joan didn’t think she’d ever seen her stepson look so serene or unguarded. Most of the time, he just wanted to lurk in his room pretending that the rest of the world was horribly embarrassing.

“Little weirdo,” he murmured, as Kevin let out another deep breath.

He had the same starry-eyed look on his face that Lane got whenever the boys had done something funny or silly.

Joan couldn’t help smiling.

On Nigel’s other side, Lane grunted a little in his sleep. “Don’t kick me.”

Nigel’s eyebrows drew down in surprise as he glanced over at his father. “No one did anything.”

“Lewis.” Lane muttered a couple more words Joan couldn’t catch, and turned over on his right side with a growl. “Move y’sodding knee.”

Nigel turned to stare at Joan in silent shock, his eyes round and wide.

She broke into a grin. “They shared a bed till your uncle hit a growth spurt.”

“Are you serious?” he whispered, looking tickled.

“Very.”

“God. Probably spent years kicking each other in the bollocks, didn’t they.”

A vivid, and frankly hilarious, mental image. “Probably.”

With an amused huff, she reached over and turned off her lamp, throwing the room into instant darkness.

Everyone else was quiet. Kevin was snuffling like he was already half-asleep, and if Lane wasn’t conked out already, he wasn’t far behind.

Joan closed her eyes and let out a small, deep breath.

To her right, barely above a whisper, Nigel spoke again.

“Joan?”

“Yes?” she answered.

“Do I have to get up now?”

“No, sweetie. Just go to sleep.”

A long pause.

“Mmkay.”

She bit back another smile.

“Good night.”

 

2

  


“Right. Switch!”

Two sets of twin bedsprings screamed in protest as both boys leapt forward in unison: Nigel lunging one-legged from the end of his bed onto the end of Kevin’s, stomping one of the ugly stuffed dinosaurs in the process; while Kevin sailed down onto the head of Nigel’s bed with a gleeful screech, collapsing into the pillows.

“Ow.” Nigel kicked the dino behind the bed before turning around to lean against the wall. Little bugger. “All right, my point. You didn’t stay on one foot.”

“Yes, I did!”

“Kev, I just saw you hit face-first.”

“I did NOT. It’s my point!”

“No, it -- wait, shut up,” Nigel warned, as heavy footsteps thudded down the hallway. He quickly dropped into a sitting position, trying to still the residual bouncing.

When the door opened, Dad was standing there, glaring at them both. “What was that noise?”

Nigel gave a shrug. Kevin just blinked back at Dad, all innocence.

“I don’t know.”

While having a baby stepbrother wasn’t always good for much, one bit was dead fucking useful, because Kevin Harris had an _incredible_ knack for getting out of trouble. Particularly when it came to the world’s most complete pushover.

Said pushover had fixed Nigel with a very suspicious look in the meantime.

“Now, you’re not playing that stupid game again, are you?”

“We’re being mountains!” Kevin offered cheerfully, and promptly tugged Nigel’s blue duvet over his head; his voice went all muffled. “I’m a rock.”

Nigel had no idea what the hell Kev was talking about, and neither did Dad, by the looks of it. So when Dad finally left with a sigh and shut the door behind him, they waited a few seconds before getting back into standing positions.

“Whew, that was close _._ ”

“No shit,” Nigel was already formulating the next round. “All right. This time, you’ve got to do a full spin, land on both feet, and end facing the room.”

“Uh uh. No fair!”

“What?”

“You can’t spin and jump.”

“Uh, you obviously can, Kev.” Nigel shoved his fringe out of his eyes with one hand. “I’ve only done it like a hundred times with my mates at school.”

“No you haven’t!”

“Yes, I have.”

“So do it, then.”

“Didn’t lose. I don’t have to go first.”

“Nigel!” Kevin stomped his feet with a whine. “Quit it!”

“Fine.” Nigel huffed out a theatrical sigh. “I’ll show you _once_ , and then you have to do it or you lose the whole game.”

He flexed his bare feet against the mattress, deciding it would work better if he did the same trick as before. All he’d have to do is stick the landing. And do a full turn in the air without hitting the bed frame. Or the ceiling. Or the wall. It was loads easier to do this at school coz the bedrooms were so much bigger.

“It’s gonna be really hard,” Kevin pointed out.

“Nah, it’ll be wizard. Unless I bugger it up and go to hospital.”

“Or you die.”

Little shit even giggled as he said it.

“Thanks, Kev, yeah. I’ll just die and you can have my records.”

“Can I have your jacket?”

“And my jacket. Christ.” Nigel rolled his eyes. “All right. ‘M really doing it, and then you’ll go next if I don’t kick off immediately.”

“Cool.”

Suddenly, Nigel remembered the fate of the stuffed dinosaur. He’d get murdered if the baby got hurt because of him.

“Hang on. Erm. You should probably get off the bed.”

“Oh, yeah.” Kevin scrambled away to stand next to his bed. “Okay, now go.”

Nigel started bouncing; couldn’t get any air since the ceiling was so low, but it was enough to start some momentum. One. Two. Three.

He leapt forward as planned, but the turn was timed all wrong, and instead of landing on his feet, he crashed into the middle of the wall and through the plaster shoulder-first, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

_“Nigel!”_

“Fuck!” Pain seared down Nigel’s whole arm as he tried to move; he let out a ragged breath when he realized his wrist had gone rubbery. His vision was swimming. “FUCK. My arm. Shit, that hurts!”

Behind him, Kevin was screaming at the top of his lungs.

Someone flung the door open. All Nigel heard was Joan’s voice, really faint–

“What the hell happened?”

and then he blacked out.

  


3

 

In the middle of a rather frigid December night, Lane woke up with a sudden chill. One second of clumsy fumbling for the covers told him how this must have happened: he was currently sprawled across the mattress, with his bare chest, arms, and left leg bared to the chilly winter air. His right calf and foot were the only parts of him that were warm, and it was only because they were jammed into the mountain of blankets Joan was currently hogging to herself.

Without a word, Lane poked his wife in the side and tugged a small portion of comforter back over to his side of the bed. Didn’t cover much, but at least he could breathe without shivering.

“Nnngh.” Joan stirred a little. “Le’ go.”

“No, you’re hogging them again.”

“‘S cold.” She tugged the blankets sharply back to the right; Lane didn’t let go, and so he executed a sort of graceless tumble into her upper arm.

“‘M half naked. Take pity on me.”

“Nooooo.” Joan tugged the blankets toward her side again. Unfortunately, she’d overestimated the amount of distance between her mountain of coverlet and the edge of the bed, and promptly tumbled into the floor with a shocked squeal and a small, muted thud.

Lane peeked his head over the side of the bed, saw nothing but a smear of movement in the dark. Even half-asleep, he couldn’t help lording it over her head.

“Devious plan seems to have backfired.”

“The hell it has,” Joan mumbled.

Half a second later, the sheets beneath him started to give as she pulled the blankets toward the floor.

“You little devil.” Reaching across the bed, Lane tossed one pillow, and then another, in her general direction. A thump of feathers against something solid told him he’d got his target on that last one. “Coming down now.”

Joan gave a theatrical groan as he swung his legs over the end of the bed, got up, and crawled into the floor next to her. But she shoved a pillow at his head and allowed him to curl up close behind her, tucked under a generous portion of comforter this time.

He was ready to say something nice to her until she shifted backwards ever so slightly; the shock of freezing feet bumping against his shins made him yelp aloud.

“Good god, woman!”

Joan made an amused noise. “‘S what you get.”

“Have you no blood?” Lane scooted closer, although it meant withstanding more pain from the arctic blocks she called her bare feet. “Icebergs’re warmer!”

“Then go spoon one.”

“Shall.” He tucked his chin into the crook of her shoulder with a petulant noise. “Might know how to share better. Or put on socks."

“Shut up.” Joan traced her foot up his leg a second time, and let out an an evil little chuckle when he gasped at the frigid temperature. “Lemme sleep.”

He didn’t. “Good night, ice wench.”

  


4

 

“Here we are, darling. Finally home.”

“Ooh. Helloooo, home.”

As Lane shepherded an unsteady, giggling Joan inside the flat, and quickly latched the door behind them, he tossed his scarf and coat in the general direction of the rack. When he turned around, Joan was already tottering past the living room and down the hall, thick winter coat half-on and dragging on the ground after her.

“Wait! Careful.”

He sprung forward to help her out of it; the second her hands were free, she pitched forward into his arms with a sudden squeal.

“Y’know, I don’t – I don’t think they di’ a lot a’all,” she slurred in a loud whisper. “Cause my toof feels _gweat_.”

God, even high as a kite, with flaky dried blood grazing one side of her lips, gauze packed around her gums, and swollen chipmunk cheeks, she still looked charming. How bloody unfair.

“I'm sure it does,” Lane leaned forward and kissed her sweaty temple. “That’s what happens when they take out the painful ones.”

Gasping, Joan staggered backwards, putting a palm to her flushed, swollen face. “But those’re mine! Wanna keep ‘em.”

“Whatever for?” Lane put his hands on Joan’s shoulders and gently turned her towards the bedroom, trying not to laugh at how sad she sounded. “Come on, love. Let’s go and get changed.”

“Are y’getting toof purgery, too?”

He couldn’t quite keep himself from laughing at that, but he was able to guide her over to sit down on the bed without much fuss.

“All right. Now, I’m going to find your really cozy Christmas pajamas so you’ll be warm and comfortable.”

“‘S’not my fault I get cold,” Joan said as he went to pull them out of the bureau. “Hate wearing socks. Haaaate it.”

“Do you?” Lane cast her a quizzical look over his shoulder. “Is _that_ why you never take that advice?”

Joan regarded him very seriously for a person who was barely sitting up. Her pupils were as big as planets, and the gauze pack was still giving her a very odd lisp. “They fee’ weir’ on my toes.”

“Well. Then we shan’t make you wear the horrid things.”

As he picked out top and bottoms, pushed the drawer closed, and turned around, he saw she was fussing with the front collar of her dress, searching for a zipper that didn’t exist.

“My toof’s mad at me,” she finally whimpered, looking up at him. Her swollen mouth trembled as if she were going to cry, and she put a hand to her bruised jaw. Perhaps it was bothering her, now that the anesthetic was wearing off. “I hurt it.”

“Here.” Quickly, Lane stepped forward, undid her zipper in the back, and helped her pull her arms out of the sleeves. “Let’s put on your pajamas. It’ll be much happier once you’ve had your pain pills.”

He helped her off with the dress but then remembered he’d forgotten the pill bottle in his coat. Damn it.

“Forgot them in the hall. Just stay where you are, all right, darling?”

“Okay,” Joan replied.

In the three minutes it took Lane to find the bag from the chemist, pour a small glass of water, and bring all of these things back to the bedroom, Joan had peeled off her slip and brassiere and was standing in the corner, giving the potted yellow rosebush a thorough scolding as she brushed stray leaves from one of its high branches. Said scolding didn’t work half as well when she was lisping, practically naked, and about to tip the planter into the carpet, she was so off-balance.

“Peggy, y’bangs are atwocious.”

“No, no. Let’s – leave her alone.” Lane shoved the water glass and pills onto the night table and quickly steered Joan away from the potted plant by one elbow, puzzling over whatever could have reminded her of Peggy in the first place.

Joan let herself be pulled away, although now she was more interested in staring down at her breasts, cupping one in each hand as she half-walked, half-stumbled back towards the bed. “D’you think my left boob’s too saggy? Cause ‘s’bigger than the other one, an’ I asked Walter if that’s bad an’ he _laughed_.”

“Nonsense.” Lane didn’t even have to look to answer that one. “They’re both perfect. Arms up.”

She obliged. He helped her into her red pajama top, decided it wasn’t worth fighting over the bottoms, and quickly ushered her over to the head of the bed, where he’d turned down the blankets.

“And take this,” he instructed as she sat down.

Joan held out her hand, popped both pills into her mouth, and swallowed them before he had a chance to give her any water.

“D’Roger and I do LSD?” At his urging, she took a small drink and lay back against the pillows with a grimace; Lane set her water glass aside, far from her hands. “‘M all spinny.”

“Hope not.” Lane winked at her; she just narrowed her eyes in a confused way, clearly not understanding. “No, my love, you’ve just had your wisdom teeth out. Small surgery. You’ll feel better once you’ve had a long nap.”

“But I’m not tired.” Joan made a frustrated noise as he drew the blankets up over her legs and stomach; looking every inch like a little girl who’d just been told Santa Claus wasn’t visiting her house on Christmas. “Wanna stay wi’you.”

“Well.” He put a hand on her knee. “I’m not going anywhere, am I?”

“Not even Mars?”

“What?”

She blinked back at him like he was an utter idiot. “‘S where Spock lives.”

“I,” Lane choked back a howl of laughter, completely stymied, “well, I don’t think anyone’s ever assumed I’d leave my gorgeous, beloved wife to find a fictional male alien. Even me.”

“Why not? You _really_ like ‘im.”

Lane laughed again, and leaned in to kiss the top of Joan’s head. “Not nearly enough to run away from you, love. Although technically Spock’s home world is called Vulcan. Both just red desert planets, I suppose.”

“Mmkay,” Joan nodded emphatically, even as her eyes fluttered shut. Definitely beginning to drift. “Don’t go t’space without me.”

“Certainly won't.”

“Even t’see Uhura.”

“Never.” Lane told her with a smile, and put one hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear I won’t visit a soul on the Enterprise without you. Not the Captain, Dr. McCoy, Nurse Chapel -- anyone. What do you say, hm?”

When he glanced over again, Joan was already asleep.

  


5

 

The morning after the office New Years’ party, Joan blinked her eyes open and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Head pounding. Room spinning. Stomach churning.

Somewhere near her feet, she could hear Lane’s voice, a low, choked groan. “Dear. God.”

Jesus Christ, he was so loud.

“Shhh,” she muttered, breathing deeply through her nose. “Ow.”

Very gingerly, she lifted her head up from between both their pillows, trying to see what the hell happened. And she regretted doing that much the second she was upright.

On the shelf next to the bureau, their record player was spinning idly, needle skipping every few seconds. Clothes were scattered everywhere, but in none of their usual places. One of Lane’s ties was on the dresser next to some spilled eye makeup and a paper hat that bore 1970 in huge sparkling numbers. Her dress was stuffed into one of the drawers, along with what looked like an empty Chinese food container.

Meanwhile, sprawled out horizontal at the foot of the bed, Lane was wearing her leopard-print silk robe over his tuxedo pants and a plain t-shirt, while Joan had on his collared shirt and a pair of pinup novelty boxers as underwear -- the lewd pair with the ruler and the naked girl in the front.

“Shit,” she muttered out loud, after she touched her toes to the floor and the spinning only slowed down to a wave. “Oh, I might throw up.”

Nothing happened, although her stomach kept roiling.

“D’you hear me?” She forced herself to keep talking. “Aren’t you sick?”

“For the love of god _,_ shush, _”_ Lane growled. He’d covered part of his face with the tail of the blanket, so all she could see from his bare feet and knees up was a tangle of wild red hair and the better part of his forehead. “Yes.”

“You throw up?”

Lane let out another groan. “Don’t look in th’sink. Or bathmat. Or bin.”

“Jesus.” Joan wanted to be more upset about that, but all she could do was throb with pain. “The hell did we drink?”

“Bloody _poison.”_

“‘M serious. I don’t remember anything after those shots.”

“Don’t talk to me,” Lane made a pained noise. “Brain hurts.”

“You make my brain hurt,” Joan muttered darkly, but they were interrupted by two kids opening the door and stomping inside.

“Why are you guys still in bed?” Kevin peered at Joan and pulled a disgusted face. “Ew. Are you wearing each other’s clothes?”

“Good god.” Nigel looked horrified. “You look like hell.”

“Yeah,” Lane grumbled from his prone position. “Now clear off.”

Joan gave her husband lump a death glare before turning back to her stepson. “Sweetie, we’re just under the weather. It’s fine.”

Nigel wrinkled his nose as he ambled toward the bathroom door, and when he got there, he leapt backwards, shielding his eyes with one forearm. “Jesus Christ. Like the bloody fucking Exorcist in there.”

Lane made a whimpering noise. “Nigel.”

“Yeah, yeah, language.”

“Volume.” Another whimper. “Please.”

At least Nigel made an effort to be quieter this time. “Did you both get food poisoning or something?”

“Something,” Joan sighed, rubbing both temples as she bit back a groan of pain.

“Don’t mention food.” Lane finally peeled the blanket off of his head, and scowled at the bright light streaming through their windows, throwing an arm into the air to block his eyes. “Oh, dear god.”

The boys started guffawing when he finally sat up.

“Are you -- are you wearing _makeup_? Holy shit.” Nigel bent over double with a roar of laughter, clutching his stomach.

Beside him, Kevin just kept giggling in a helpless way.

“What? No.” Blearily, Lane turned to frown at Joan, and that was when she noticed the pale shimmery shadow grazing his eyelids and the remains of a dark cat’s-eye around his left temple. When she nodded _yes,_ apologetic, he let out a forlorn huff. “Joan, _why?_ ”

Clueless, she lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “No idea.”

  


6

 

Even with the radiator on at full blast, sitting at the small, squat desk next to the ugly brown bunk beds, Joan could still feel frigid air seeping in from outside with every big gust of wind. Past the dark window, falling snow whirred and howled as the blizzard continued to blanket the city.

“Okay,” Stan knocked on the open door, and strode into the room with a stack of four or five t-shirts. “Well, Chief apparently doesn’t own real pajamas, so you’ve got your pick of Dallas Sunset football, baseball, or track and field tees.”

“Are any of those long-sleeved?” Joan sighed after a second.

“Football it is.” Stan tossed her a shirt with a faded blue bison on the front; Joan barely caught the first before he tossed a pair of sweatpants in her direction. “Is Lane a medium or large?”

“Whatever you have is fine,” said Joan, although in truth Lane would probably just sleep in his shorts rather than wear another man’s clothes. “We’re sorry to intrude.”

“Not a problem.” Stan just shrugged as he set down another pair of pants onto the edge of the bottom bunk and moved toward the door. “Too bad we only have the bunk beds. Anita was desperate to get rid of ‘em.”  A murmur in the hallway. “Oh, yeah, sure, man. Here.”

Lane sidled past Stan and into the room, with a t-shirt now in hand.

“I’ll just, uh, leave you guys to get changed.” And Stan shut the door behind him as he left.

“Okay.” Joan pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose as she watched the smirk on Lane’s face get bigger and bigger. “Just tell me. How bad is it?”

“Well, your mother’s very cheerful, all things considered.” Lane informed her as he crossed the room. A visible shiver rippled down his spine as he took off his sport coat. “Boys shoveled the walkways a few hours ago, and now they’re all inside, drinking hot chocolate and watching movies on telly.”

“Ugh.” Joan made a disgusted face. “You know that means she’s tipsy, right?”

“Naturally.” Lane hung his coat on the doorknob of the tiny closet. “And judging by the giggling as he said goodbye, so was Nigel.”

How the hell was he managing to sound so casual?

“She gave our fifteen year old _liquor_? And you’re happy about it?”

Lane actually smiled. “Well, consider this. It’s nearly zero degrees, there’s fifteen inches of snow on the ground, and the wind gusts are up to forty miles per hour. Too cold to sneak out. Absolutely nothing open even if they could leave. So, he may as well have a bit of schnapps. Because he’s cooped up with your mother and Kevin for who knows how long.”

“Okay. It’s official. I’m the only sane person here.”

Joan stood up and unbuttoned her blouse, deciding she might as well undress and get it over with. After a moment of deliberation, she took her bra off, too, before stripping out of her skirt and putting on the football t-shirt Stan had brought earlier.

Jesus, it really was freezing in this little room. And the bunk bed was just adding insult to injury. She was going to smash her ankle on that dumb ladder before the night was through. And even worse, who knew how long they’d be stuck.

“Here.” Lane didn’t seem bothered by any of this, just hung his vest over one of the bed posts as she crawled into bed. “Going to fix us a nightcap. Back in a tic.”

“Turn the light off,” Joan complained before he shut the door; he reached back in, fumbled for the switch, and did.

Alone in the dark, she lay there fuming silently for a few minutes. In the other room, the sounds of footsteps and drawers opening and closing were audible over the loud blast of music from Stan’s stereo. Even the idea of Stan and Peggy doing something as domestic as getting ready for bed wasn’t enough to make her laugh.

When Lane finally returned, he held an ugly patterned mug in one hand.

“What’d you do, steal all their cheap whiskey?”

“Only Lagavulin,” Lane offered her the handle, silhouetted only by the dim moonlight from the window. “But if you don’t want any…”

Joan frowned at his silhouette for a second before taking the mug and shooting back the contents in a single gulp.

“Glad I already drank mine,” was all Lane said as he put the mug onto the nearby desk. “Here. Budge up.”

“Should have made you take the top bunk,” she muttered as Lane took off his collared shirt and trousers, and slid in next to her. “You’re squishing me.”

“Oh, you’re not really angry at sharing a bed with your husband?”

“Yes, I am angry, Lane!”

“Why, particularly?” He slid an arm under her torso, voice still playful. “Because I'm wearing another man’s clothes?”

“Because this is stupid,” Joan hissed. Lane didn’t even flinch, just scooted closer to her, propping himself up on one elbow and idly stroking one hand up and down the side of her arm. “We’re stuck in a shithole on the goddamn Upper East Side, in a _blizzard,_ instead of at our own house, in our own beds, with _our_ _family!_ Why am I the only one worried about that?”

“Worrying isn’t stupid,” Lane said after a moment, quietly.

“No, it isn’t! And yet everyone’s acting like _I’m_ crazy!”

“Course you aren’t.” Lane kept moving his hand. “I mean, you don’t like being cooped up. You never have.”

“Not about being cooped up. Jesus. I want to be home, Lane. In our bed, with our kids in the next room.” Her voice cracked on the next word. “I mean, what if something happens and we aren’t there?”

“Oh, my love.” Lane hugged her a little; she leaned her head into his chest. “What would happen?”

In the dark, when Joan couldn’t see his face, it was easier to admit these things out loud. “Nigel could break his arm again. Kevin could get into the alcohol. Mom could fall in the shower. I don’t know. You know how she is. She doesn’t think. Just does whatever she wants.”

“Well, yes, but she can feed and watch them, which is the important part.” He chuckled a little. “Bit like we’re on vacation.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Joan murmured against his clavicle.

Lane pulled back a little, sounding hurt. “You know I wasn’t.”

“Hm.” Maybe she was being too hard on him. She put a hand in the center of his chest. “Sorry I’m being a bitch.”

“Never that, darling.” He brushed a lock of hair away from the nape of her neck with two fingers. “And certainly not about this.”

Joan made a noncommittal noise. Lane kept talking.

“Not ideal, obviously, but the boys are safe and warm, which is all that matters. And we’ll make do here until then.”

“It’s still not the same.”

“No, it isn’t.” He leaned down and kissed the side of her neck, the touch of his lips barely more than a gentle brush. “But it's very tender of you.”

Joan exhaled loudly. “Kissing me won’t solve anything.”

“Won’t it?” Lane kissed her neck a second time, firmer, and then nipped at the hot, flushed span of skin. “Usually does all right.”

Joan let out a soft noise against his hair as he began to use his teeth. It did feel good. “Honey, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Lane traced his tongue around the spot he’d just nibbled, as his hand snaked up her hem to trace over her bare belly. “Nice and warm.”

She arched into his touch, unable to still her hips from seeking more. Clearly encouraged, Lane bit her neck a little harder, which made her moan. He really was getting her started.

“Mmm.” Oh, god, she _wanted._ “They’ll hear.”

“Not over the radio.” Lane chuckled against her skin, brushing one thumb along the bottom of her left breast as he worried his teeth across her earlobe, still teasing. “If we’re quiet.”

A clear challenge, and Jesus, even the idea was enough to get her wet. When was the last time she’d had to be this quiet, or this close to getting caught?

“‘S good.” A sharp twinge low in her belly had her arching into him again, this time with a gasp. “Hurry.”

“C’mere, love.”

Lane crushed his mouth over hers just as he slid one hand into the front of her borrowed sweatpants.

 

_twenty minutes earlier_

  


Alone in Peggy’s living room, Lane was contemplating the many rows of bottles on her drink cart for as long as possible, in order to give Joan time to sulk in private. He had no idea why she’d got so stroppy over being away from the boys all of the sudden; just this morning she had declared that if they stayed at her mother’s for several years, it might still be too soon.

But she did clash with Gail during the best of times, so. Perhaps that was all that was bothering her.

As Lane was pouring himself a bit more whiskey from a nearly-empty bottle in front, he heard footsteps padding across the hardwood, and glanced over to see Stan coming into the kitchen in pajama pants and a faded loose t-shirt swimming with holes and bleach spots.

The lad just nodded a hello on his way past. “You know we’ve got Lagavulin in the bottom, right? Help yourself.”

“Ah.” Lane immediately swigged whatever he’d poured himself earlier before plucking the prize from that particular shelf. “Thanks very much.”

A pill bottle rattled, the faucet ran, and Stan came back into the living room with an empty glass a minute or so later, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he walked over.

“So, Joan seems pretty pissed,” was all he said, quiet.

“Well.” Lane made a noise that said the lad was right, but that it was only temporary. “Never fear. She’ll come around by morning.”

“Hey. Little whiskey always cures the blues.”

“Well. That, and - ” _a couple of climaxes,_ Lane nearly said aloud. Thankfully he was able to bite his tongue in time, although the small snort that accompanied the words refused to be pushed down. “Erm. Other things.”

Stan ducked his head on a grin. “Yeah. That’d do it, too.”

They stood together, awkwardly silent, for another moment.

“So, listen,” the younger man began, scratching at one side of his beard before plucking a bourbon bottle from the middle, “just throwing this out there, but if you guys’re jonesing for some privacy, I can always leave the stereo on for another hour. Chief usually works late, but she uses earplugs.” He laughed. “Snoring.”

“I–” _don’t think that’s necessary_ , Lane nearly said, but then realised that they were all likely to be stuck together for several days, and imagined spending the entirety of said blizzard with a worried, restless Joan who possessed none of her usual outlets for stress relief. They’d find the bodies in the garbage chute, come spring. “Well. If -- if you don’t mind?”

“Could always tie a sock on your door.”

Stan was grinning ear-to-ear, damn him.

“Oh, no. Thank you.” A pause. Lane did not quite know where to look, and cleared his throat. “Arrangement is quite sufficient.”

_And much appreciated._

Stan extended his hand with a snort. “No worries, man.”

They shook hands with a solemnity that belied the entire situation. And if Lane’s chest and face blazed hot from the awkwardness of broaching this subject at all, or if there were some good-natured ribbings to face later, so be it. Better a bit of awkwardness than a gruesome death via fondue skewers. Or whatever kind of sharp objects they'd got here.

“And if -- if the two of you should need a moment of your own?”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Stan clapped Lane on the shoulder as Lane started to walk away, mug in hand. A wave of Lagavulin swirled dangerously close to the lip of the cup, but thankfully did not spill over. “We’ll just do it in the shower or something.”

Far too much information than Lane ever wanted about someone else’s private inclinations, but he said no more about it. With another nod, he gathered up his mug of Lagavulin, and tried to smile.

“Well, er, good night, then.”

Stan was practically twinkling with good humor. “See ya in the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> YAY FOR BED-RELATED CHRISTMAS FLUFF. I just wanted to write some super cute slice of life scenes because the real world has been a bear lately. But of course even I couldn't get through a G-rated fic without adding a little smut to it. Hope you guys enjoy! :)


End file.
